SPN fanfiction - My brother
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: This belongs somewhere between 11.02 and 13.05. Spoiler warning. No smut nor ships to be found here, just consensual, non-sexual spanking, with a belt. Trigger warnings: Short mention of attempts at self-harm and of suicidal thoughts. This is different, and in some ways darker, than my other stories. I own nothing, I'm just playing in the sandbox, borrowing toys.


"My brother?  
He's formidable. And he is a very, very dangerous man. And he is brilliant.  
Seriously, I got into Stanford on a full ride, and, frankly, I think my brother might be the more intelligent one of us.  
Huh? Oh, yeah, that – I know, I know - on paper, he is just another high school drop-out.  
You see, he has never been one for books and academics, but don't let that fool you. He **can** do it, he just doesn't want to.

My brother is a genius, no other word for it.  
He thinks of himself as the brawn, and of me as the brain, but he is so much more than that.

Don't you get it?  
Being smart isn't about what you know, or having read a lot of books, like I have.  
It's about how your brain works – and my brother?  
His brain is running on rocket fuel – he can build almost anything out of anything – you need a bomb? An electromagnet? An EMF-meter? He'll whip one up before you can say MacGyver. You need to plan a battle, break into a vault or save all of humanity in one fell swoop? My brother is the guy to call.

Really, you don't want to underestimate him. That never ends well.

He also happens to be the best hunter, I've ever met. He is far better than our Dad, than Bobby, than anybody we've ever run into.

Besides he's got this hero complex the size of... uhm… of… well, of the Chrysler building. He'll sacrifice himself to save a stranger without a moment's pause.  
Hearing gunshots? He's the guy who will be running towards the sound.  
He has been dashing into burning buildings to save people all his life – at least since he was like four or so. He's a goddamn real-life hero, who has saved the entire world more than once!  
And me. I can't even count the number of times, he's saved my ass. He'll stop at nothing, if he thinks I'm in jeopardy.  
You should remember that.

What? Dangerous? Yes, I meant what I said. You see, he is a truly **good** man. And there is nothing more dangerous than a good man, who is convinced that what he is doing is the right thing. He'll stop at nothing to reach his goal. The lengths he'll go to is frightening.  
A bad man – yeah, he'll tie you up, maybe torture you, but he'll blab and brag, to make sure that you *know* you've lost – he'll stall the kill to savor having that kind of power over you – that gives you a chance of getting out of his claws…  
But a good man, a truly good man, who has decided that you need to die, who is convinced that he is doing the right thing… He'll put a bullet in your brain without a moment's pause. He might lose some sleep over it afterwards, but you'll still be equally dead. And my brother is a very, very good man. You might want to think about that for a bit.

I love him. He is strong, and he is weak. He is full of faults and he is flawless. He is my idol and my exasperation.  
He is my big brother.  
He was the one who made me go cold turkey and kept me off the demon blood. It wasn't pleasant, but it was necessary.  
Later he was the one who kept me on the straight and narrow, back when I lost my soul.  
He was the one who got it back for me too...  
Oh, the shit I got up to, while I was soulless, and he wasn't in my life, that still keeps me up on some of the bad nights.  
But after we started hunting together again and figured out what was wrong with me, why I popped out of Hell wrong… He kept me on a tight leash.  
I might not have had feelings like remorse or fear of hurting others, but I could still feel – and fear - pain, so he threatened to take his belt to me whenever I stepped out of line. His line.  
Did it a few times too. I didn't particularly like it, I mean, who would? But it worked. I'll have to admit that much.

And he is so horribly damaged. Well, we both are. All that shit we've been through.  
Honestly? I don't think he was ever truly whole, you know, mentally.  
This life…. it twists you up inside... and we grew up in it.  
He never did have much of a childhood, always on the road, with a gun in his hand, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, watching out for me and fighting monsters most kids only see in nightmares.  
And our Dad… phew… we loved him, and we hated him. He was more drill sergeant than Dad, when he was actually around. But still, he was our Dad, and he did his best. "It's not my job to be liked, it's my job to raise you right", he used to say.  
Yearh right… but he was an obsessed bastard and even if he and I went toe to toe too many times to count, it was my brother he really did a number on.  
Got him screwed in the head, not thinking himself worth the dirt under his boots. Who does that to a kid? And then he turns around and goes to Hell to save him. Couldn't have messed him up more if he'd tried.

Of course, my idiot brother had to go do the same shit, went to Hell for me.  
Although looking back, we were just pawns in a game back then.  
Angels, demons, Michael, Lucifer… They all **wanted** the Apocalypse. And to jump-start that, they needed the seals to break.  
"The first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.".  
So, get this… Guess who the righteous man was? I'll give you three tries…  
He came back from that even more wrecked, but he put the pieces back together, shoved all that shit down and just kept ticking.

After that whole Leviathan-shamble, he was thrown into Purgatory of all places. Came back shattered. And he put those broken, jagged pieces back together once again – got the …the…the…chalice, if you get my drift, glued back together.  
But it never gets completely whole again after being fractured so completely, so many times.

Then he went and got himself tagged with the Mark of Cain. That was awful. He fought it for longer than anyone should have been able to. He held on. From can to can't. He held it together until he didn't have anything to hold together anymore.  
In the end there were nothing but a thin shell of sanity over a sizzling inferno of anger, violence and chaos surrounding a dwindling core of humanity.

One of the worst times was after that thing with Dark Charlie, that ugly fight, we almost lost him to the Mark. He almost didn't come back from that.

I caught him in the kitchen, trying to cut his own hand off. Trying in vain to press the knife through the skin.  
When I confronted him - actually, I slugged him and threw the knife through the kitchen - he said that the Mark wouldn't let him kill himself, so he had thought that if he could get rid of his hands, then he couldn't hurt anyone anymore. But the Mark wouldn't even let him do that.  
He was pacing around rambling, one hand grabbing the other wrist, as if he had to hold onto something if he couldn't fight anything.

I caught him and asked him how I could help. As I held onto him, I could feel him vibrating, sort of like he was constantly getting electric shocks.  
Since I refused to cut off his head or his hands for him, he asked me to help him with the guilt.  
Said he couldn't bear it. I wasn't sure I could do much to help him get rid of it, and he agreed, but he wanted me to at least take the worst spikes off of it.  
And then he told me, how he wanted me to do that. I didn't want to. Hell, no. But he literally begged me. My big brother, my no-chick-flick-moments brother pleading with such desperation. How could I refuse that?  
Even if I had to go hide, while I puked my guts out, afterwards.

Hmmm? What? Oh, why he wanted me to do it that way?  
Well, you see, it's what we know. It's how we grew up, it's our life. This life, the hunting, its harsh, it's bloody and it's vicious. We grew up with that, it's all we know.

Did you think we were nice men? We are not. We are violent, bloody men, who have tortured and killed, telling ourselves that it was for a worthy cause, that the results were worth the prize.  
Living like that, doing the things we've done, it changes you, there's no coming back after that.  
We **are** dangerous.  
All those angels, all those demons, all those sons of bitches, they never really got it, you know – that we are the ones, they should be afraid off.  
Getting my brother to sit down and talk about feelings is like pulling nine inch nails out of a board with your bare hands.  
Actual therapeutic talk sessions isn't something, I would even attempt to suggest. I'm not stupid. Or suicidal.  
No, he needed it done the way he knows best.  
It wouldn't be enough to alleviate the guilt, not this time, but it would take the edge off, make him able to function again. So, I agreed. My stomach was churning and rolling, but I agreed.

I made him strip off all his weapons. Left my own in the kitchen too. Didn't want to risk him getting his hands on anything, if this went wrong.

Then I put my hand on his shoulder and took him to the bunker's dungeon. He walked beside me docilely enough, but I could still feel the tension running through him. He walked like a prisoner walking with his guard and in that moment, I guess, that is what we were.

The lock clicked so loud that it must haven been heard in both Heaven and Hell, when I sealed us in.  
He helped me drag the heavy table into the middle of the room.

Then he gave me his own belt, it's this broad, thick, leather thing. He has had it for years.  
He stripped off his jeans and boxers and bent down, chest flat on the table, gripping the edge on the far side with both hands.  
I could see his legs shake and the muscles of his back ripple like the tide at noon, but he didn't move, not when I laid the first stripe across his ass, nor when I put one heart wrenching welt after another all the way down from his ass to his knees.  
I went back up and did it again. And again. And when he told me that he couldn't stop the urge to fight back anymore, I chained him down.  
God help me, I chained him down over that table.  
He let me, that's almost the worst part of it. He just stood there while I did it.

Then I kept whipping him with that horrible belt until he stopped raging at himself, at me. Until he couldn't even beg anymore. I was no better than the demons of Hell torturing him all those years ago, but I did it anyway, because that is what he had asked of me.  
I don't truly know how much it helped, but when I let off, he had stopped struggling and yelling. His wrists were bloody under the metal cuffs I'd locked around them.

Do you know the sound those old fashioned heavy iron shackles make when they hit a stone floor? I won't ever get that sound out of my head.  
I'll admit this: When he finally pushed himself up, I was ready for an attack.

But he just walked slowly over to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. I felt my shirt getting wet before I realized just how hard he was crying.  
So, I held him. I have no idea how long we stood like that, and it doesn't matter, because when he pushed me back, he was calmer than he had been for a long while.

How he made himself sit in the library for hours afterwards, doing research, I'll never know. It must have been sheer agony. Not that he showed any of that. And he went straight back the next morning, sat down and started reading again, as if he wasn't as stiff as a barn door.  
It must have felt like sitting on glowing coals.  
I've had my share of stripes, although never as bad as those I gave him that day, so I can tell you for certain that making yourself sit down afterwards is not for the fainthearted.  
Not that he is that. Fainthearted. Heart of a lion that one.

Anyway: We keep each other human, that's my point here.  
We are the checks and balances that keep us level – without each other, well, I can't even imagine how that would end up.  
I know that my brother, although he is functioning like a normal person – well, normal for a given value of normal, our kind of normal, is just one step, a short step at that, away from being a total homicidal maniac.

He might not carry the Mark anymore, but he still craves the violence, the fighting, the killing, and without hunting as an outlet, and me as his leash…well… I'll let you ponder about that for a while.

Truth be told…. I'm not sure, I would do much better without him to keep me in check either."

 _"_ _Sam! Sammy… come on, come on, come on, you son of a bitch…Come on, Sammy… please, please, please."_

 _"_ _Nnngnnn? Dean?"_

 _"_ _Oh god, oh jeez, Sammy… I thought you were gone, I thought you were dead for sure this time."_

 _"_ _Oooow, umph…Shit, Dean… I…I was."_

 _"_ _But I thought that there would be no more coming back…"_

 _"_ _I know, I know, but I think... I think…. I_ _ **argued**_ _my way out of it?"_

 _"_ _Well Samantha, you always were an argumentative bastard. You good?"_

 _"Yeah, I think so, just need to catch my breath…think I broke a rib, or something, my chest hurts."_

 _"Come on, then. Let's get you up - and the chest pains, those might have been from me doing CPR on you... scared me, don't do that again, ok?"._

 _"mmmff ... Ok."_

 _"Bitch?"_

 _"Jerk!"_


End file.
